


Coping Mechanisms

by Iclare



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iclare/pseuds/Iclare
Summary: Being a Musketeer guaranteed injury. There wasn’t a Musketeer, past or present, who could claim to have not been injured at one time or another. And they all had their own ways of dealing with the pain. Some swore like sailors, others shed tears and called for their mothers. Each handled it in their own manner.





	Coping Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little oneshot that wouldn't leave me alone. It stemmed from the line in 'Commodities':
> 
> 'It's the best way with Porthos. We've learned from experience.' 
> 
> And I wondered how the others cope with injuries. These are my thoughts. Enjoy!

Being a Musketeer guaranteed injury. There wasn’t a Musketeer, past or present, who could claim to have not been injured at one time or another. And they all had their own ways of dealing with the pain. Some swore like sailors, others shed tears and called for their mothers. Each handled it in their own manner. 

With Athos it was simple. Get him blind drunk. That was how he managed all of his pain, physical and emotional. If Athos was injured, particularly if there was stitching involved, his brothers were nearby with a bottle of wine; a cup would have been redundant. D’Artagnan watched from his seat beside the rickety table. Athos sat backwards on the high back chair, his arms folded and his head slumped forward. Aramis sat on a chair behind him, a damp cloth wiping away the blood that was dripping down his brother’s back. 

‘At this least his aim was terrible,’ Aramis smirked over Athos’ shoulder, dunking the cloth into the bucket by his feet and rinsing the blood out of the material. D’Artagnan smiled and shook his head at his antics. 

‘It doesn’t feel terrible,’ Athos grunted, his fingers flexing and digging into the wood of the chair. He had felt the dagger stick into his shoulder, missing the bone by millimeters. He had fallen to one knee with a grunt, his sword taking out the bandit in front of him at the knees. Before he could pull himself up Aramis was beside him, his experienced fingers examining the dagger attached to his flesh. A tut sounded in his ear. 

‘There’s another shirt ruined,’ Aramis sighed beside him, pressing some cloth around the dagger in an effort to stop the bleeding, ‘And I am not fixing this one.’

Porthos huffed a laugh beside him and gripped his elbow, helping him stand on his own two feet. 

When they managed to make it to the nearby inn Aramis and D’Artagnan had brought their stumbling leader into the vacant room while Porthos left to raid the kitchen. D’Artagnan was just about to go searching for him when the man appeared, an open bottle of wine already in his hand. He held it out for Athos to take, who hesitated for only a moment before grabbing the bottle by the neck and gulping the wine out of it. 

‘Easy,’ Porthos warned, slumping into the chair beside D’Artagnan, ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. The keep’s bringing it up now. He says we can pay him when we leave.’ 

‘You’re going to owe him a small fortune,’ Aramis joked from beside him, the twinkle in his eye missed by Athos but not by his other two brothers. 

Having already cut the shirt from Athos, the material too ruined to be repaired, Aramis motioned Porthos over and placed his brother’s hands onto the cloth pressed around the dagger. 

‘Ready?’ Aramis asked, his hand already on the handle of the dagger. D’Artagnan watched as Athos took another glug of wine before nodding his head, his eyes closing. D’Artagnan crept closer, reaching a hand out and placing it onto Athos’ knee. Their leader gave no indication that he noticed but D’Artagnan felt the trembling in Athos’ leg lessen. 

‘On three. One-’ Aramis started, pulling the dagger out after the first count and dropping it to the floor. Athos sucked in a moan, his knee bouncing and the bottle of wine already attached to his lips again. 

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Porthos smirked, pressing the material in his hands hard against the wound to lessen the blood flow. Athos didn’t grace him with a response, instead using his time between breaths to take in more wine. 

‘Careful now, with that blood loss you’ll be out before you know it,’ Aramis warned, threading his needle and getting ready to stitch the wound closed. 

‘That’s the plan, dear brother,’ Athos grunted, his eyes opening and meeting D’Artagnan’s in front of him. D’Artagnan smiled softly at him and Athos could only nod in reply, his breath hitching briefly as he felt Porthos move away from the wound and Aramis’ needle pierce the skin. 

D’Artagnan moved back towards the table and Porthos left to help the innkeeper with the food and wine - or so he said; Aramis knew it was because the sight of blood made him pale. 

‘How is the pain?’ Aramis spoke softly in Athos’ ear, noting that half the bottle of wine was already gone. 

‘Manageable,’ Athos answered honestly. 

‘Is that the wine talking?’ D’Artagnan called out from the table, removing his doublet and his boots, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

‘Definitely the wine,’ Athos mumbled, swirling the red wine in the bottle in front of him. Aramis smirked at D’Artagnan before returning his focus to the stitching in front of him. He threaded the needle in and out of the skin, pulling it together and making the stitches as neat as possible. He could feel Athos’ trembling diminish until he was simply sat in front of him, the empty bottle of wine dangling from his fingers. 

Like a finely tuned instrument, D’Artagnan moved over and took the bottle from his brother’s hand and Porthos returned to replace it with another, Athos instinctively moving it to his lips. Aramis tied off the stitches, borrowing Athos’ bottle briefly to douse the wound with wine, before bandaging it. Athos didn’t even flinch as the wine poured over his wound and Aramis hid a smirk as he dried his hands on a nearby towel. 

‘All done and good as new,’ Aramis declared, pointing at the bed beside them and Porthos manhandled Athos onto the mattress. Athos’ eyes were rolling in his head and he was muttering words that made no sense to anyone else. D’Artagnan grabbed the half empty bottle of wine and brought it over to the table, setting it with the others. 

‘Only one and a half? That must be a new record,’ Porthos joked, rearranging Athos until his head was on the pillow and all limbs were on the bed. 

‘You be sure to tell him when he wakes, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,’ Aramis replied, covering their brother with a warm blanket. 

\-----------------------------------------

Knocking him out. It was the best way with Porthos, they had learned from experience. Porthos never liked the sight of blood. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t mind when it was their enemies’ blood, that he had no problem with and to be honest, the more the better. But when it was his family’s blood, or his own, his stomach turned to ice and he felt his last meal climbing back up his throat. 

The knife wound to his thigh had him huffing and cursing and his dark skin turning a horrifying shade of grey. Aramis was beside him moments after it happened, leaving their two swordsmen to handle the remaining marauders. 

‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ Aramis promised, his hands already pulling away the torn material of Porthos’ trousers to see the damage. Porthos huffed out a laugh. 

‘It’s not bloody fine. I might lose my leg.’ 

‘You’re not going to lose your leg. At least not all of it.’ 

Porthos’ glare had Aramis smiling widely at him as he pulled his sash from around his waist and pressed it against the wound. Porthos couldn’t contain the groan of pain that escaped his lips and he closed his eyes. 

‘You will be fine, I promise my friend,’ Aramis assured him, putting more pressure on the bleeding wound and looking around at the battle going on behind him. 

Athos jogged over and allowed D’Artagnan to remove the remaining two bandits by himself. Athos could argue that he was allowing their youngest to hone his skills but he couldn’t fool them. He needed to be with Porthos. 

‘How bad?’ He asked, dropping to his knees beside his brothers. 

‘Not too bad. A lot of blood, a bit of pain, but not that bad.’ 

‘A bit of pain?’ Porthos echoed, opening his eyes briefly to glare at the medic but another press on his wound had him shutting them again. 

‘If you would, please, Athos,’ Aramis nodded in Porthos’ direction. 

Porthos didn’t even have time to open his eyes before Athos hard fist flew at his cheek and his eyes rolled into his head. Athos grabbed him before he could fall to the ground and set him down as gently as possible. 

‘How bad really?’ Athos asked, taking off his weapons belt and doublet, folding the leather and placing it under Porthos’ head. 

‘Not bad. Bit of stitching. He’ll be tender and sore for a few days but it won’t keep him off his feet for long. Thank the Lord.’ 

D’Artagnan arrived moments later, huffing with tiredness and handing Aramis his saddlebags. 

‘Out of breath after that? We must get you training harder,’ Athos deadpanned, his face breaking into a smirk with D’Artagnan stared at him in disbelief. 

‘Athos, be nice. He’s still only a pup. Besides you’ll have plenty of time to increase his training with Porthos off his feet. He’ll be more than happy to give you pointers as well.’

D’Artagnan walked away to gather firewood for their campsite, muttering about inconsiderate older brothers, much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers. 

Aramis tipped the contents of his flask over the slice in Porthos’ leg and gripped the limb in his hands when, even in unconsciousness, the man tried to pull away. 

Athos had the needle threaded and in Aramis’ line of sight before the medic could even realise it had happened. 

‘You’ve been learning,’ Aramis remarked with a pride, flashing Athos a dazzling smile before returning to silence, his focus on his brother’s bloodied skin in front of him. 

‘I learn from the best,’ Athos said honestly, standing up and moving away to gather the horses closer and help D’Artagnan move the dead bodies of their enemies away from their campsite. They would stay only until Porthos regained consciousness but it would be better if they didn’t have to look at corpses while they rested. When Porthos awoke he would ask if he had been punched, the other Musketeers would vehemently deny it, and they would start their return journey home. 

\-----------------------------------------

For Aramis it was always prayer. Prayer calmed him. Prayer helped him gather his thoughts. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a mistress in all of Paris he hadn’t been personally acquainted with, prayer was the one thing that grounded him. That and having his brothers beside him. 

He lay face up on the bed in the infirmary, all other soldiers told in no uncertain terms to make themselves scarce. The dark look in Porthos’ eyes promised pain to anyone who would dare disturb them. Aramis whimpered pitifully and refused to open his eyes to Athos’ calls. 

‘Deus meus,’ Aramis muttered, his functioning hand reaching up and grasping the crucifix that hung around his neck, ‘cum sis omnipotens-’ 

‘Aramis,’ Athos called, sitting on the chair beside the bed and carefully picking up the injured arm of his brother. Aramis’ only response was to moan and try to pull the injured limb away. 

‘Infinite misericors et fidelis,’ Aramis continued after inhaling deeply. His eyes opened and he stared at the wooden ceiling above him. He briefly wondered how he had managed to get back to the garrison but the thought quickly left him as Athos’ cool fingers manipulated his broken wrist. 

‘Aramis, I’m going to have to get the bone back into place, alright?’ 

Aramis could hear Athos talking but the words seemed foreign to him. 

‘Spero Te mihi daturum, ob merita Iesu Christi,’ Aramis muttered, his eyes spinning around the room. They briefly landed on D’Artagnan who was standing beside the window, his arms folded across his chest and Aramis couldn’t help but notice how young the boy looked. He was rarely unsure of himself these days but then again Aramis was rarely injured so they were all out of their comforts. 

‘Vitam aeternam et gratias necessarias ad eam consequendam,’ Aramis gasped out, his head turning to look at Athos. Their leader held his gaze for a few moments, the fingers on the damaged wrist stilling as Athos gave his friend a chance to gather his thoughts and to prepare himself. 

‘Quam Tu promisisti iis qui bona opera facient,’ Aramis mumbled with a nod of his head as he closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose and settled himself. He was no stranger to pain and was infinitely grateful that it was his brother mending him instead of the physician. He had complete faith that his brother could do it. 

‘Ready?’ Athos spoke softly beside him, already moving the arm into position, his eyes never leaving Aramis’ paling face.

Aramis couldn’t get the words out. He simply nodded and pressed his heels into the bed. He let out a shout and a sob as Athos pulled his arm, the bones clicking and the pain radiating throughout his entire body. He slumped into the bed and did his best to ignore his brothers as they splinted and bandaged the wrist. 

‘Go to sleep Aramis,’ Porthos grunted from beside him, a cool cloth being placed on his head and he felt D’Artagnan sidle up beside him and sit on the edge of the bed. He had placed his hand on Aramis’ calf and Aramis focused on the warmth. 

‘Quemadmodum, Te adiuvante, facere constituo.’ Aramis whispered, his eyes opening briefly to look at his brothers before he closed them again, his face relaxing and he let his brothers take over. 

\-----------------------------------------

Athos would never mollycoddle any of his brothers, especially not D’Artagnan. He would train him harder and longer and more brutally than any of the other soldiers. He argued that it was so they were strong soldiers who could protect the King and Queen and definitely had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was worried about them being injured. 

Athos would argue that Aramis and Porthos were often too soft on D’Artagnan. How will he ever toughen up if you treat him like a child? He is training to be a Musketeer; he needs to learn what that means. 

Learning to be a Musketeer, apparently, meant that D’Artagnan had to take a bullet to his side. The air was knocked out of his lungs on impact and his eyes widened. Athos felt his heart stop momentarily and the world froze around him. It was the sight and sound of D’Artagnan crumbling to his knees that made the world start turning again and Athos shouted his name, rushing towards him, his sword meeting any flesh that came between him and his protégé. 

It was later, when they had returned to their room in the nearby inn, that Athos’ fear would settle. Upon arrival Aramis and Porthos had stripped D’Artagnan of his weapons belt and doublet and shirt and had sat him upright on his bed. The boy’s eyes rolled in his head and he whimpered at the pain of Aramis’ examination of the wound. 

Porthos made himself scarce, as usual, with the promise of returning with supplies. Aramis rolled his eyes and returned to his youngest brother’s wound.

‘It’s a through and through. Doesn’t seem to have hit anything vital. He will be fine. Just need to get it cleaned and stitched.’ 

Athos felt his heart start pumping again as he stepped towards the bed, steadying D’Artagnan’s shaking body. D’Artagnan’s eyes wandered around the room and Athos could see the effort it was taking the boy to remain upright. 

Athos was silent as he sat down on the bed in front of his brother, allowing him to rest his head against his shoulder and relax his body against him. Aramis flashed him a smug look as he felt D’Artagnan relax but Athos threw a glare back at him. He was simply helping his brother; this was not mollycoddling. 

When Porthos arrived back, Aramis cleaned the wound with water and wine and Athos rubbed his hands up and down D’Artagnan’s trembling arms, saying nothing of the tears that he could feel soaking into his shirt. 

D’Artagnan was young, he reminded himself, and with the benefit of youth came the ability to allow your older, and wiser, brothers to take your pain and give you comfort in return. One of Athos’ hands reached into D’Artagnan’s hair, his fingers rubbing the scalp in a soothing motion. 

‘Rest, D’Artagnan,’ Athos cooed into the boy’s ear, ‘We will be here when you wake up.’ 

D’Artagnan nodded briefly but his body remained rigid against Athos as he felt the needle stitching him up. 

‘Stay?’ The voice croaked from his shoulder. A smile graced Athos’ scarred lips. 

‘Go to sleep. I promise we will not leave.’ 

Athos felt the moment D’Artagnan’s body gave up and he pulled him tighter into his body. He was definitely not getting soft. He was simply doing what any brother would do. And brothers take care of each other.


End file.
